


The Prince of Mirkwood

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle, Drama, Family, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The army of the Woodland Realm is called upon to fight in the Last Alliance, deep in the black lands of Mordor. The Elvenking Oropher, and his son Thranduil march to war, with all of its mistakes and glories, but do they march to a victory? And if the King should fall, what then becomes of their prince?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At the very last, it had come to this. The lines of the army stretch beneath the glowering sunrise, veiled in a cloud of choking smog issuing from great rifts in the rocky ground. Molten rock churns and boils deep below, worming through each crevasse, throwing eerie shadows dancing amongst the brittle shale. The mountains loom above, great pinnacles of stone thrust like broken teeth from the earth, scraping the underbelly of the cloudbank roiling above them. Underlit by the fissures of magma, they bathe in a bloody light, crimson swallowed amongst the shadows clotted between great crags of splintered rock. Through this hell-scape the army marches, filing grim and silent through a steep valley, the barren rock crunching beneath their boots. Clad in gold and green, the colours of their woodland home, under the baleful light their armour flashes sharply, golden pauldrons edged in red, cuirasses and chainmail glowing malevolent and brooding. The rich green of their banners, the sword hilts and bows wrapped in dyed leather dull to black, oily and weird, sending a shiver of unease crawling up each soldier’s spine, a faint coiling of nausea within each of them. 

To the side of the column, atop a ledge of shale outcrop jutting from the valley wall, the king, his father stands. Blonde hair sweeps back from the Elvenking’s face in a golden cascade, a magnificent swan-helm rests on his brow, interwoven lames of metal forming delicate wings, a slender neck. Tendrils of emerald filigree trail like vines across his gleaming silver armour, from the centre of his breastplate extended like the great branches of an oak tree, wrapping over his shoulders, curling around his ribs. A longsword rests at his side, the curved steel blade sharp and deadly within its leather sheath, spells of speed and strength forged along its three-foot length in fluted Tengwar, a mighty gift from the High Elves long ago. From the ledge crowned with his banner; a great golden tree emblazoned across a sea of velvet green, he surveys his army, his pale blue eyes flickering from soldier to soldier. He squints as he looks to the barren rocky ground before them; eerily empty, the wind sliding through hollow stones, blowing a thin veil of dust to swirl sullenly in the air. 

Standing beside his father, clad in his own armour no less befitting a prince of the Woodland Realm, he too watches the army advance, slowly marching their way into the jaws of the Black Lands. The quiet unnerves him, only the crunching of shale beneath their boots and the occasional rumble from deep beneath the earth providing any relief to the pressing, ominous silence; where they expected the horns and screams and hot crush of battle they were met with broken rock and shadows, and such aching, weird emptiness.   

A quiver and strung longbow rest across his back, their rich mahogany and leather shining black in the ruddy light, the tips of his silver hair set aflame as they tease the feather-fletched ends of his arrows. To distract himself from the growing sense of discomfort, he fiddles with the twin knives strapped to his waist. Their ivory hilts run smooth under his fingers, the hide-wrapped grips soft beneath his palm. With the soft hiss of metal against leather, he slides them midway from their sheaths, the wrought steel gleaming red, each forearm length blade keen and lethal. Even with their reassuring warmth resting under his fingertips, his skin crawls, the mounting feeling of unease pulsing urgent through him; the army marching forward into empty space, the valley walls clustered tight around them, but no sign of the enemy, no sign of _anyone_ ; scout nor vanguard. The minutes trickle agonizingly by, and soon he can bear it no longer, doubt gnawing hard at his insides. And he turns to his father, suspicion reading plain across his face, he opens his mouth to speak, and in that moment, in that shuddering inhalation of breath, the horn call sounds that chills the blood in his veins. 

The horn blasts break across the valley, blaring their alarm in harsh dissonant notes. And before he could breathe, before anyone could react a howling takes up in return, fell voices shrieking and clamouring in guttural war cries. Suddenly orcs swarm over the cliffs, down the valley walls, issuing like scuttling cockroaches from unseen gullies between the rocks, armour black and chitinous, bearing the sigil of the Red Eye daubed across each hideous helmet, every patchwork shield. Below his shocked gaze, the front lines of the army collapse, instantaneously beleaguered on three sides by the enemy, surging forward in some mad frenzy to crash upon the elves caught in the impossible assault. Swords hurriedly pull free of scabbards; officers scramble to assemble their lines, but too late. The vanguard buckles under the swarm; fair soldiers crushed by gnashing, biting teeth, voices crying thick with bloodlust, metal punched through leather and steel alike. He stares down in horror, caught in some chill paralysis, his mind not wanting to process what just happened. His eyes slide languid over each dying soldier, every thrust and parry lightning fast yet trapped in some nightmare viscosity, knives dragging slow and cold through skin, axes split skulls in hideous spurts of blood left hanging infinite in the air. 

Beside him, his father’s growl jolts him from his reverie. Face twisted in a grimace of rage, his eyes shine with a roaring flame, hard as tempered steel in his anger, watching his soldiers ripped to pieces before him. Quicker than conscious thought his father grasps the hilt of his sword, knuckles white and bloodless beneath his skin. And for a second he knows, he knows what his father intends and he wants to cry out, to stop him, to prevent this insane reckless move before it happens, but even as he turns, his father jumps. His longsword flashes pale in his hand, as with feline grace he lands ten feet below, amidst a thicket of orcs sent reeling back in surprise. Swifter than his eyes can follow, watching grimly from above, his father wheels his sword in a devastating arc, its honed point carving through sinew and flesh alike in a spray of viscera, black and steaming in the air, and the clutch of orcs fall limp at his feet, tracheas and jugulars alike neatly severed. A savage smile twists across his father’s face, all teeth and curling lips as he whirls like one fey, throwing himself into the fight, his sword cleaving a bloody path before him; such ruin wrought with each brutal lunge, each ringing counter as he hacks his way to his front lines, to join his main forces. But the lines of orcs swarm thick before him, a sea of reeking hide and hideous faces, and the Red Eye always watching, glaring from shields and helms with its malevolent crimson stare.        

From his perch upon the rocky ledge, solemnly he watches his warriors founder, the flanks of their formations steadily devoured by the sheer number of savage blades; deformed, fierce bodies falling like demons upon his soldiers caught helpless in the ravening. From his position of relative safety, he draws his great bow, its silver string thrumming with each swift nock and release as he fires countless times into the orcs surrounding his father. Arrows fletched in white swan feathers punch through eye sockets, rip through throats, leaving orcs screaming and flailing to die in the dirt, but he has too few arrows to wreak any real damage; the orcs once more swarming forward to challenge his father, and the few of his Kings-guard who managed somehow to hack their path to him, flanking their ruler with sword and bow and dual bladed knives. Suddenly, like a flower shot up from a field of stinking mud, the banner of the Woodland Realm unfurls above his father, plunged like an anchor into the raging sea by some desperate bearer, the golden tree snapping wildly in the breeze as its guardians struggled to defend it. Gradually they cut a small breath of space through the legions of orcs surrounding them, but more always moved to fill the gaps of the dead, faces more hideous than before, black eyes lit in feral glee as the orcs sense their quarry struggling, slowly drowning under the tidal waves of war. 

He watches his father, the dwindling knot of guards around him, cold tendrils of dread spreading in his chest. Their cries echo wildly about the valley, commands and battle cries mixed with the screaming of the wounded in one terrible rending cacophony, and swiftly he looks across to the main forces, their closest hope for aid. But beleaguered they are, their own officers frantically trying to hold their lines, the enemy swarming on three sides and vastly outnumbering them. They could offer no help to their king, stretched to breaking point already, adopting a ragged defensive manoeuvre to save themselves from complete annihilation. His heart thuds wildly in his chest, dismay clawing through him, and as his gaze flickers back to his father he sees the captain of his guard fall beside him; a fountain of gore sprayed across the stained earth from a vicious axe blow, cleaving his cuirass clean apart, and rending through the muscle of his chest, sternum and ribs shattered in a gout of steaming blood. His father turns with a shout, trying to catch his captain as he falls, but immediately a crowd of jeering orcs charges him. Hard-pressed, he slashes desperately to keep them back, his sword flashing bright and urgent against their sable armour. Watching from above, for a second of brutal clarity he can do nothing but stare, screaming instinct of what he should do, what he must do flaring within him, a moment of glorious lingering insane potential. His pulse beats hard in his head, echoing muffled and warped in his ears, and he exhales a breath he didn’t know he had held, then in one mighty leap he jumps from the rock ledge. He rips his knives free from their sheaths in midair, and as he deftly lands they glitter in his hands, a foot and a half of shining steel to pierce plate armour, slice through tendon and bone as if they were butter. A thrill of adrenaline races through him, and with a growl he throws himself into the barrage of orcs, knives arcing in deadly rhythm as he strikes, cleaving a slow and dangerous path to his father’s side. 

The minutes wear on, and he makes little progress. Every enemy slain springs two more in his path, charging headlong with their crude iron broadswords swinging, breath hot and panting rolled from bloodstained jaws; every attempt he makes to burst forward rendered futile, hemmed by a ring of snarling faces, a reeking crush of bodies. As he turns and parries and slashes he catches fleeting glimpses of his father’s banner, still defiantly fluttering in the breeze, and he fancies below it he sees the faintest spray of golden hair shimmering in the crimson light. But the glimpses become fewer, the banner falls limp as the wind falters, and desperately he pushes forward, hot shards of panic ripping through his chest, some dark foreboding driving him to stab, to duck, to lunge faster than thought, faster than sight, to do anything but he has to move; he has to find his father, he has to save him. 

With painful slowness he advances, inch by bloodstained inch, vaulting the bodies of the slain, dead flesh and armour catching under his boots. Not ten metres from where he fights, his father is left alone, his last companion caught with an iron crossbow bolt through his eye socket, gore dripping down his face as he screams, his fingers clawing at the thick black shaft before he falls limp to the ground. His father stands unaided, spattered in the dark effluvia of battle, surrounded by a ragged pile of his slain captains; their eyes glazed and staring sightlessly towards the murky sky. A ring of orcs forms around him, cutting a circle of eerie space amidst the general crush, awaiting the signal to advance, to kill; their fell voices mocking, laughing; their prey cornered, the Elvenking hopelessly outnumbered. And trapped outside in the fray still he fights, he fights so hard to move forward, to be at his father’s side, every thrust, every strike tinged with desperation, fear and urgency set ablaze within him, but it’s not enough, he’s too slow, _too slow_ and beyond the rabble of orcs he can see, through the flurry of battle he can see his father standing, sword still held defiantly before him. 

From a hidden signal the ring of orcs collapses, pouring inwards towards his father like a wave unstoppable, the flood unleashed and frothing in its madness. The first he cuts down with two mighty swings of his sword, a second falls beheaded, but there were so many, too many for him alone. Like snarling dogs they seize him, thick fingers gripping hard around his shoulders as he writhes, cruel hands clenched around his forearm, trying to force his longsword from his grip, nails digging hard through chainmail. But he holds on tightly, fingers locked around its grip, tendons screaming white across his hands with the pressure, stubbornly clutching his sword until the end. 

And from beyond the crush, still bitterly fighting his way though the orcs, above the screams and grunts of battle in some supernatural clarity, he hears the snap of bone, clean and shearing under iron fingers, hears the sword clang to the ground, his father’s anguished cry, the ugly jarring laughter of the orcs. They expand again in vague synchronicity, leaving a swathe of empty space around his father, bettering their view, the theatre unveiled raw and sadistic. Clutching his broken arm, his father sways, his fingers turning numb as pain and shock races through his body. Three orcs step forward once more, hulking commanders with clotted muscles, grotesque fangs jutting from misshapen jaws. One slams its mailed fist into his stomach, and he buckles, retching as the air punches out of his lungs, and as he staggers the other two grab him about the shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees, their iron grip inescapable as he twists desperately, exerting their obscene pressure until he falls, knees hitting the battle-churned dirt beneath him. His helmet is ripped off, the graceful swan-helm thrown to the ground and smashed under an iron boot, its metal lames crumpled and warped with a mournful squeal. His blonde hair ripples in the breeze like a sheen of pale gold, ethereal and light, but horribly naked; frail against the brooding dark of the orcs. A thick, scarred hand twines through his hair, viciously yanking his head back to expose his throat, his pulse visibly flickering through his veins, jumping hard under his skin. A black dagger swims into his vision, curved and tooth-like, its serrated length inscribed with spells or ruin, of death; vile poisons smelted into the very metal. Like ice it feels against his neck, the mad throbbing of his heart lost in cold iron, and in a moment that lingered agonizingly before him he waited for the final strike. 

Still trapped beyond the circlet of orcs, the prince pushes so hard, with every fibre of his being he hacks and tears at the enemy, panic flooding through him, he has to reach him, he has to save him, but ever he is blocked, precious seconds wasted, until finally, _finally_ he shoves through the ring of orcs, wild momentum bursting him through, and he looks at his father, looks straight into his eyes as the knife blade slashes across his throat. 

Time congeals; slowing to a crawl as he watches the blood pour, spurting in shock silence to mottle his father’s pale skin, a red necklace dripping rubies down his throat. And he stands, wavering as shock and grief floods through him, eyes locked to his father’s face; expressions of surprise, of pain flickering across his father’s features, but fading to such a terrible childlike confusion as he tries frantically to draw breath. And he can’t bear it, can’t bear to hear his father’s gasps, wet and clicking as air shudders warped through his severed oesophagus, rings of muscle and cartilage trying desperately to continue their failing functions, flexing horribly beneath his skin, but drowned in red, in slick crimson so brutally defined. His father’s back arcs in distorted reflex, the fiery light in his eyes dimming, and slowly he tips forward, muscles falling slack as his mighty strength fails. From the edge of the space he dives across the piles of slain Elves to catch his father as he falls, kneeling in the dirt, twisting his father around in his arms until he lies cradled against his chest, his silver breastplate awash with crimson, beading along the metal branches of the emerald tree like crushed cherries darkly shining. 

With some nameless emotion; fear, anger, sorrow and pity all smashed and warped and ablaze within him, he stares down at his father, still faintly stirring in his arms, their silver eyes locked together. And from their gaze wells a grief so keen his heart wants to burst inside his chest, rip its agony out through his ribcage and shatter into a million tiny little pieces, he just wants to break, because he failed, _he failed_ , he couldn’t save his father, he couldn’t _do anything_ but watch him die. Such anguish burns in his eyes, but beneath his fury, beneath his sorrow his father softly smiles, droplets of blood flecked across his lips in serene stillness, his own eyes calm, forgiving, proud even. Proud of his son, a warrior, a king to succeed where he had failed. And at the end of the world, lying there in his arms, gazing with such love into his son’s burning eyes, he sees the glimmer of tears, and he smiles; so gently smiles as his vision blurs, calmly slipping down into blackness, his great spirit fleeing to the great Halls of Mandos, forever to dwell in peace and quiet harmony.       

Numb, he kneels, his father’s limp body lying heavy in his arms; his hands slick with blood, prickling like tiny insects crawling across his skin. Beneath the glowering sky he stays, a graven image of grief abandoned in the midst of ruin, nothing but wastelands of churned earth and bodies and his father cradled against him, sprawled lifeless in his arms. As if through walls of stone, muffled and muted he hears the jeers of the orcs, sneering twisted faces erupting in raucous laughter, the tread of their iron boots as they advance, to grab him, to kill him. Savagely blinking back tears, he lays his father’s body gently to the ground, with one wild twist rolls to pick up his knives where they dropped, scuffed and stained among the sodden dirt. Wearily he stands, breath shuddering uneasily as he struggles to swallow his sobs, shining tears trailing like stripes of white fire down his cheeks; his shame, his sorrow, his guilt twisted hard inside him for all to see. Standing over the body of his father, he will not move, he will not fail, not again, _never again_ , staring down the ranks of orcs, fury burning in his eyes. Alone amidst a sea of howling enemies, he slides into a fighter’s stance, twin blades readied before him, and grimly he waits, the clouds churning grey and sullen above the slaughter to come.   

* * *

To be continued... 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The orcs crash down upon him like waves on a rock, foaming in their bloodlust. Standing over his father’s body, his banner flutters grim and defiant beneath the roiling charcoal skies. A crimson glow emanates from rivers of molten rock moiling through gullies in the shale ground, left exposed and raw like open veins. He stands, a lone golden tree amidst a sea of swarming orcs, their armour black and chitinous, scabbed in rust and bone and cracked oily leather. His twin knives flash in lethal dance as he whirls, as he slashes; all the rage and pain of his father’s death crumpled up into one seething ball of agony in his chest, throbbing fuel driving him to attack, to defend; parries and thrusts gliding faster than thought, an icy fury of battle upon him.

Every cut of an orcish blade he blocks, pale steel jarring against stained iron, crude scimitars and broadswords swung with sickening strength, and yet he parries every one. The thrill of the impact races up his arms, his face twists into a feral smile as he slashes in return, and another orc dies at his feet, the scum left convulsing in the dirt to die. Anger and sorrow push him on, beyond what he ever though possible, his instincts screaming at him to twist left, to stab right; the orcs falling in hideous sprays of gore, their viscous, greasy blood pooling beneath his boots.      

_You will not touch him again._

But in time he starts to tire, the mad adrenaline seeping from his veins, and fresh legions of orcs press forward to attack. His parries come slower, barely glancing the enemy’s swords of off his blades, and he screams at himself to move quicker, to dodge; but his body begins to fail him, every muscle trembling as still he drives himself on. A sword carves across his right pauldron, the metal buckling beneath the impact, sending splinters of pain ripping down his arm, his fingers nearly slipping from his knife hilt as he rams it through the dark eye-socket of an orc; almost dropping it as he tugs it free from the orc’s falling body, trailing a stream of bubbling, black fluid.  Still the orcs swarm forward, and desperately he tries to summon what strength he has left, but his knives slide clumsily across plate armour, his arm wobbles dangerously as he counters a hard swipe of an axe, fatigue rippling through him, and the orcs press their advantage; their prey weakening, the scent of fear rising in the air.

A cleaver swings towards his face, and frantically he jerks backwards, every instinct set blaring in alarm, move, run, but he has nowhere to go, hemmed in on all sides by the orcs’ leering faces. They toy with him now, their quarry trapped within their grasp. And as he steps backwards, clearing a tiny space before him with one shaking sweep of a knife, he stumbles against his father’s body. His boot catches on a slack leather strap, his balance fails, and he falls hard backwards, collapsing to the ground in a heap, with a groan wrenching himself around, back to his feet before the fatal blow could fall.    

But his foot slides from beneath him as he rises; sending him stumbling back onto his knees, with a desperate twist dodging the arc of an axe sent whistling towards his head, spitting salty blood where his lip had split during the fall. His knives lie heavy in his hands, the noise of battle rings dimly in his ears, the orcs blurring into one faceless mass of heaving black armour, snapping wildly in and out of focus. And he sees the captain step forward, swarthy and knotted with hard muscle, his teeth bared beneath a helm fashioned in the likeness of a ravening wolf, all edges and biting iron. He sees the scimitar in the orc’s hand, with a paralyzing certainty stepping towards him, and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, his mind left shrieking as his body slackened, every muscle going limp in shocked fatigue. And he watches the orc raise the blade, already dripping with crimson gore, and he can only stare in horrified resignation, kneeling over his father’s body, all of the shimmering threads of fate twisting together into this one dread rope, strangling in its finality.

_I’ve failed you, father._

_I’m sorry._

The bugle call smashes across his consciousness, ringing weirdly inside his skull. The orc captain’s head bounces to the ground before him, a look of hideous astonishment twisted across its face. Its body slumps to the ground a second later, a spray of dark blood blooming from its suddenly decapitated form, a bloodied spear left quivering in the ground nearby. And a heartbeat later, legions of cavalry wheel into view around the lip of the valley. 

The neighs and screams of horses meld with the cries of the Elven commanders, the drum of hooves and the clash of swords reverberating around him in a crush of noise, the white lather of horse-sweat and the sheen of steel breastplates gleaming in the ruddy light. Dazedly he clambers to his feet, barely comprehending, blinking hard as he looks around. Against the grey shale the glitter of blue and silver stars was blinding, the banner of the Noldorin King suddenly unfurled, and beneath it the Elven cavalry roared like breakers smashing to shore. A phalanx of horsemen rip through the orcs clotted within the narrow valley, charging headlong towards where he stood, their tapered spears levelled, cleaving down upon the orcs caught before their terrible onslaught. The front lines of the Elves speed closer to where he stands, their faces grim beneath their silver helms, their horses squealing as they galloped, spurred forward, their eyes rolling white, nostrils flaring wide and panicked. They sweep through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat, the steel of their blades flashing bright and bitter beneath the churning skies, and the orcs buckled before them. A great wail of fear arose from their ranks, a visceral scream as they sensed victory slipping from their grasp. The orcs surrounding him scramble into position, into some semblance of a ragged formation, and he ducks as they move, crouching protectively over his father’s body. His flagpole still leans over them, the green velvet banner flapping wildly in the breeze, the threads of the golden tree flashing, a bright beacon against the sable menace of the orcs.

He hears the first wave of the Elves crash into the line, the shrill neighing of horses, the bellows of the orcs, and suddenly there is movement once more around him. The lines of the orcs shatter like glass under a hammer blow, their semi-organized ranks disintegrating into an utter rout, scattered bands fleeing back into the mountains, scuttling into dark gullies and hidden fissures like cockroaches before a flame. All through it he curls over his father, knives gripped hard in his hands, but the orcs scarcely notice him, intent on their escape. His hearing fills with the thunder of hoof-beats, the wild charge of the cavalry as it parts around him, like an island caught in the river’s flood. Then through the din and the screams and the passing rush of hooves he hears it, one lone voice calling in his own tongue: “ _Hîr vuin!_ My lord!”

“ _Hîr vuin! Thranduil!”_

Confused, he glances around, dimly noticing a warrior clad in stained green leather sprinting toward him, his voice echoing over the thrum of fading hoof-beats as the cavalry swept up the valley in pursuit of the routed orcs.

“ _Hîr vuin!”_

Abruptly he is pulled to his feet, his mind still reeling, only faintly acknowledging this newcomer. A captain, he was one of _his_ captains, and he was being hugged; splinters of facts knitting together in his mind. And as he stares over the captain’s shoulder, slowly other figures congeal out of the vague background, other warriors in torn green surcoats, golden trees emblazoned upon emerald breastplates, dented helms still bearing the scuffed insignia of his house. Tired and battered they were, but their eyes shone bright beneath bloodied brows, what remnants of his force survived now limping their slow and painful way to him, crowned by his banner still fluttering above him.

The scream shocks him back into himself. An elf stumbles forward, his eyes fixed on the crumpled body of his king, hysterical sobs racking through him as he drops to his knees, head bowed upon his chest. Slowly, the prince blinks, sudden recognition snapping the elf into place: one of his father’s advisors, a gentle soul, and a lifelong friend. Numbly he disentangles himself from his captain, still fussing over him, and approaches the mourning elf. Gently he raises the elf to his feet, his hands gripped tightly around his shaking shoulders as the elf sobs, trying to still him, to let him know that it would be all right, to smooth away his pain and make him heal, some futile attempt to spare him the awful empty grief that throbbed within himself. They stay motionless for a time, more Elves trickling into a ragged circlet about them, broken swords in their hands and tears falling silver and silent down their faces. Gradually, the elf’s shudders calm, and he lets go of his shoulders, the elf’s eyes rising to meet his own. A broken smile flickers across the elf’s lips, his jaw trembling; but faintly he nods, and whispers, “ _Melda tár.”_

My king.

The battlefield slowly empties around them; the survivors still able to walk searching through the piles of corpses for any still breathing, any that could be saved. In the wake of the cavalry’s roar, the quiet is eerie. But the stillness is shattered by the moans of the dying, wet coughs gurgling through punctured lungs, faint voices whimpering through crushed ribcages, broken limbs; an elf nearby cradles his guts in his arms like a baby, his intestines slithering through his fingers. Carrion birds wheel overhead, dark vultures cawing in fell voices, savouring the feast below. Silently he sits, watching the approach of what healers they could muster, flitting like pale ghosts to and from each prone form, carrying the wounded back to their camp, and easing the passing of those less fortunate. A healer approaches him where he stands, leaning heavily against the banner still wedged firmly into the shale, but he waves the elf away. His injuries are minor; they can wait. His father is beyond help now.

After a while he gathers himself, beckoning to a pair of litter-bearers hovering nearby, wincing as a bolt of pain shoots up his arm from his bruised shoulder. They approach silently, their heads inclined in respect for their fallen king, and gently he lifts his father’s body, ignoring the expanding ache in his side. His chin wobbles perilously as he lays his father down, running a hand through his matted hair, the golden strands clumped with drying gobbets of blood. He rests his father’s longsword lengthways down his body, clasping it tightly within his stiffening fingers, wincing as he feels the broken bones shift in his father’s arm as he arranged him. With a wavering sigh he stands, furiously blinking back tears, and he nods to the bearers, who slowly move off in the direction of the camp. He hesitates one moment, roughly shoving his knives into their scuffed sheaths around his waist, casting about for his bow, but it is lost amongst the piles of bodies, and he has not the patience to look for it. With a wrench his banner comes free of the rock, and he hoists it over his shoulder, the golden tree hanging mournfully as he walks behind the litter-bearers, in funereal procession winding back to their encampments, to perform the last rites. To bury their king. The last survivors fall into limping file behind them, pitiful remainders of the proud army he had marched south with so much confidence, so much surety.  

And now their shattered remnants stagger home. The war lies in the hands of the High Elves now, their commanders laying siege to the Dark Tower, valiant Gil-Galad and the sons of Elendil standing tall and defiant before the twisted Maia, their armies arrayed in shining splendour behind them. But now his people were defunct, their purpose made void, and they were dismissed to wander whither they will. Some join the Allied forces, eager for the enemy’s defeat, but most follow their prince home, weary of battle, looking once more for their green eaves under which to lick their wounds. They trace the curves of the great rivers, seeking ever northwards. Across the dustpans of the _Berennyn_ , the Brown Lands, they march, over fields once verdant and green now scourged of life, salty plains left desolate by decades of war. Now under the eaves of the Greenwood they pass, their forest once rich and spilling over with the hum of birdsong now scraped bare; the trees dead and silent, shivering as the wind whispered through their branches, a deadfall of leaves left mouldering upon its winding tracks. The snap of brittle twigs underfoot is jarring, the tang of metal and blood hangs in the air, tainting the soft earthy aroma that they knew. Where once they walked freely under the trees, they now guard their camps; each night a dreadful baying arises, guttural cries wrenched from warped throats howling their hatred to the moon; the trees clotted with webs, threads of sorcery strangling the southern reaches of the forest. With heavier hearts they march on, eager to be home, to leave behind the horrors of war, to outrun the evil encroaching even upon their own realm.

The first shouts from their marchwardens hidden among the bright trees cracks smiles across many a tired face, the dread chill of the haunted reaches slipping from them, to be replaced by a weary joy, and relief at seeing their heartland untouched. The wide gates of the Elvenking’s halls stand open, and solemnly they file through them, under the mountain to their great stronghold, lit with flickering lanterns and the soft luminescence of glow-worms as the gates shut with a click behind them. With a tired smile the prince dismisses his soldiers, dissolving their companies, watching them run into the embraces of their lovers, their children sprinting joyously into open arms. But amid such happiness there is also pain, the awful emptiness of those who did not return, the quiet keening of the maidens left widowed, parents left childless, their tears lingering in the quiet hollows of his halls.  

To his own chambers he retreats, relief and dismay turning within him. The doors are flung open before him, and he barely has a chance to react before a flash of golden hair leaps into his arms, nearly bowling him over. In a sudden, fierce rush of emotion he holds his young son, scarcely more than a child, his pride and his joy, clasping him in a grip that approached desperation. He bites his lip as his son crushes his face into his breastbone, savouring the warmth he found there, comfort in the closeness of a father long absent. With all the excitement of youth his son then seizes his hand, dragging him into his rooms, chattering about his latest hunt, he brought down a whole deer by himself with a bow that he made, a new poem that he had written, a new song, all the while clinging fervently to his father’s hand. And desperately he tries to smile, to share in his son’s exuberance, tries to force his lips to remain still, not to waver; he has to be strong, but he has to tell him, and tell him soon. But not yet, let him enjoy the moment, he is so young, so pure. Let him not know, let him not hurt…

But gradually his son senses his mood, his distance; confusion slipping into his pale green eyes, the quizzical expression of a child who knows something is wrong, but cannot fathom what. And slowly his chatter stops, his excitement fades, and he looks about the room, searching, his little brow crinkled in confusion as realization sets in.

His son looks up into his eyes, and he cannot meet them.

And he opens his mouth to speak, he must be the one to tell it, it is proper, it is right, but the words stick in his throat, clamped there with sharp little barbs, and swiftly he blinks the tears out of his eyes, he has to be strong, he must do this before…

_“Ada_ …”  

“ _Ada,_ where is grandfather?”

And it comes as a whisper, in all its devastating purity, such an innocence to be ripped cruelly away. And slowly he sinks to the floor, kneeling before his son, looking straight into his eyes, and the sudden horror that he read there nearly broke him anew, nearly shattered him right then and there, but he steeled himself, taking his son’s hands in his own, feeling the tiny pulse flicker through his slender wrists, pale and delicate and full of life. And it hurt so much, it felt like he was wrenching up a part of his soul but he said them, the words he never should have had to say tearing themselves from his lips: 

“He…he fell, my little leaf.   

Your grandfather will not be coming home.”

 

* * *

 Well, it took longer than expected, but ta-da, Part 2 completed. I'm not called the _ **eventual**_ winner for nothing. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.


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